


How to Be a Good Catholic

by Regrettablewritings



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Jokes at the expense of Catholic tradition, slightly sexual implications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regrettablewritings/pseuds/Regrettablewritings
Summary: Dominick “Sonny” Carisi Jr is quite possibly the Poster Boy for a Good Catholic™… . And then there’s you.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on my own experiences as a raised Catholic person.

As the only son in a household of three girls, Dominick “Sonny” Carisi Jr. had a few extra expectations placed on him besides being an absolute gentleman of God. Specifically, that he meet, fall in love with, and bring home a good Catholic that would win over his parents and sisters and then marry said good Catholic. It was in Sonny’s hopes that you would be that very person: You were sweet, patient, smart, funny, had a good head on your shoulders, could at least recite the Lord’s prayer … Okay, maybe it was the bare minimum, but considering what few people he was able to meet outside of his busy schedule, you were the best. Besides, it helped that you liked him right back. Enough, in fact, to agree to date him and do so quite happily for the last couple months. Maybe it was a short period to become so optimistic, but Sonny couldn’t help it: You were, in a word, wonderful.

This description, among plenty of others, was what ran out of your boyfriend’s mouth when he finally took you home to meet the folks, six months into the relationship.

“ – and then this one over here,” Sonny gently patted your shoulder, proud smile in place, “before I could even do anything, she just books it and tackles the guy after a block’s worth of running!” The rest of the Carisi clan broke out into amazed laughter, causing you to blush and smile. You directed your vision to your hands, neatly folded in your lap so as not to pluck at the cloth placed over the dinner table.

_Not to jinx it_ , you couldn’t help but note, _but things are going surprisingly well thus far._

You never wanted to buy into stereotypes, but sometimes the one about Italian mothers being protective of their sons seeped into your thoughts, particularly due to Sonny’s occasional light reference of such.

“She _may_ say bring up what church you go to,” Sonny had warned you before. “And by ‘may’, I mean as certain as Barba is certain to hit the scotch tonight.” Dang. You sincerely hoped that she didn’t have a personal vendetta or anything against Our Lady of Merciful Embrace, then.

Apparently, she did not as she had yet to fling any accusatory glances your way or ask any questions that would put you on the spot. She, alongside Mr. Carisi, Bella, Gina, and Theresa, had been all smiles and hugs the entire evening. Of course, you also had to thank Sonny for hyping you up and continuously highlighting your more interesting features like a good salesperson. Though you initially had some hesitancies about him recounting the story on how, during your second date, you chased down and tackled a purse-snatcher out of pure spite …

You mustered up enough confidence to cut through your shyness, allowing you to lift your head up and see the riot attempting to be tamed. Dominick Sr. wiped his eyes free of laughter-induced tears, coughing out rhetorical queries of how “such a lively woman would go for a scrawny noodle like Sonny.” To which, your blush would only deepen, tightening your face into a coy smile. Sonny, on the other hand, remained quite proud of his father’s apparent approval at the cost of a slight jab at his own person. The evening was going well. Too well.

It had to end sometime.

Mother Carisi began to swallow down a few giggles, having decided that the end of the little retelling would be the perfect time to begin dinner.

“(Y/N), would you like to lead us in grace?” she requested. An innocent enough invitation, albeit one that made you nervous simply out of the principle that you would be under observation. But as you made the sign of the cross and prepared to close your eyes, you saw your beloved boyfriend in your peripheral vision, granting you one last smile of pride in you. You were thankful that Sonny had been blessed with an all-inspiring smile. It was almost as if he truly was emitting light and you were the flower he had graciously decided to give all of his energy to. 

The appreciation did not go unnoticed. In fact, it translated itself into confidence, resulting in you delivering grace with finality: “God is grace, God is good. And we thank him for our food. Amen.” You didn’t say it quickly, nor did you stretch it unnecessarily. It wasn’t a long prayer of thanks, and therefore you felt no nerves when you repeated the sign of the cross and lifted your head.

You _did_ , however, feel nerves when you noticed six pairs of eyes focused on you. Some were in heads that were still somewhat bowed but the fact that they were directed at you was undoubtable. The essence of slight confusion held within them was also quite blatant. The cold disconnect in the reception of your recital provided a cold front, removing the warmth and confidence that Sonny had previously instilled in you.

Trying not to visibly close back in upon yourself, you uttered a quiet, “… Did … Did I do something wrong?”

To which, Mother Carisi’s head rose completely, gently waving her hands to show a negative. “Oh, no! No, sweetheart, you did fine, it’s just …”

“It’s just not how we usually do our grace,” Dominick Sr. explained. It wasn’t in a cold way or even accusatory. Just as it was: a matter of fact.

“Oh …” You knew you were going to regret asking but – “So then how _do_ you say grace?”

“Bless us, O Lord, and these gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty,” Gina offered. She bit her bottom lip as if unsure as to whether it was in her place to finish it. When nobody objected, she completed, “Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” the Carisi clan murmured in unison. You, too, uttered an amen, though one so incredibly quiet that no-one seemed to take notice that it occurred after their collective one. And even if anyone had, the temptation and richness of the meal Mother Carisi had put together stomped it out of complete acknowledgement. At least, to the others.

You continued to sit prettily, humor stories in your sheepish demeanor. Sonny continued to be proud of you. If Sonny was, indeed, the sun and you were, in fact, a flower, you felt as though you would’ve been the kind that closes up after being exposed.

“That went great. They love ya!” Sonny exclaimed. You hummed a response that suggested being neither here nor there and continued to pinch the foil on the edges of the plates on your lap. Mother Carisi insisted that you take plenty of food home and that if there was a particular dish you liked, to come right over and get the recipe. She was a very nice woman with a very nice family. So why did you feel off?

This became a question worth asking in Sonny’s mind as well, much to your dismay. As much of a goofball as he could be, Sonny was still a detective – he was already used to observing behavior from far more heinous figures; figuring out his girlfriend was bothered by something was child’s play.

“Hey,” he asked, taking his eyes off the road to quickly glance at you. “What’s the matter?”

You had two options: Say that nothing was wrong and potentially ruin the evening by pushing Sonny away; or be honest. Damn your good girl behavior.

“I messed up grace,” you pouted.

“ _That’s_ what this is about? C’mon, nobody cared about that. Besides, you didn’t mess anything up, you just …” Sonny shrugged, “did … something a little differently … But it’s fine, it’s fine.”

“My parents never even really taught me the version you guys use … They just said that the ‘God is grace’ one was good enough. Heck, I don’t even remember learning that grace in Sunday school!”

“Really?” Sonny questioned. “Huh … I remember my folks drilling that into our heads. An’ then Sunday school’d seal the door shut so that there’d be no chance of it ever seeping out. But – ” another shrug “ – everybody’s experience is different. No harm done. What matters is that your heart was in the right place. And that Ma likes you. Almost as much as my dad does.”

“You sure about that?” you questioned. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? “Because I may not know your mother very well, but I _do_ know mothers in general: They have a tendency to mark down each and every one of their children’s significant others’ screw-ups. It’s only a matter of time before that little slip with grace comes up in a discussion about how I’m a bad Catholic.”

“Hey,” you heard your boyfriend begin sternly. “Ma isn’t like that, I promise. But seriously, there’s no such thing as a bad Cathhhh – ” He dragged the word to a pause. There _was_ that instance with the sex trafficking members of the Church. And an unfortunate but still widely acknowledged amount of scandal … Plus, there were plenty of awful people who professed themselves to follow the Catholic doctrines of faith.

“There’s no such thing,” Sonny repeated carefully, “as being a bad Catholic just because you say your grace a bit differently. That’s just ridiculous.”

“Yeah, to _you_ , maybe!” you whined. “You’re a friggen Level 10 Catholic on a scale that only goes up to 12!”

“I wouldn’t say that – ”

“And I’m still stuck Level 4!”

“(Y/N),” Sonny sighed. He managed a quick look at you before turning back to the road. “Listen: It’s not a matter of being a ‘good Catholic’ or even being Catholic at all! I chose you because you’re a great person and I love a lot of things about you. An’ on top of that, you try. That’s literally the most I could ask for. So please: _stop worrying about something that doesn’t even require worrying!_ Ma giving you her cannolis to take home? That’s a sign of approval!”

You sucked in your bottom lip and worried it between your teeth. For as good of a sales person as Sonny had been earlier, he sure wasn’t making you purchase anything he was insisting upon now.

Not noticing, he went on, “So long as you’re not being the type of gal I arrest, you’re doin’ fine. I swear it.” He threw in that light-causing smile for good measure and you threw a weak one of yours back, even if you knew he couldn’t see it too well when he allowed himself to quickly look towards you. You were thankful that he couldn’t better observe your expression. If he could, he would’ve known that you were still beginning to bubble with worry. But, then again, you had never had the most pristine image of self. Maybe he was right? Maybe you _were_ a good Catholic after all …


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins your pursuit of being a Catholic suitable for Poster Child Sonny Carisi!

**1\. Attend Mass on a regular basis, not just for Christmas, Easter, and Mother’s Day**

So the fact of the matter was that, yes, you had been raised Catholic. However, your family was nowhere near as hardcore as Carisi’s. Your family sort of did the basics: go to church as much as possible, make sure you at least practiced the rituals up to First Communion, and try to see how things would play out from then. But for the most part after you got deeper into your teens, most extracurricular stuff depended on you and your increasingly busy schedule. By the time you’d finished college, you’d become what some might call College Catholic: if there wasn’t a near enough Catholic church or one whose commute towards was too ridiculous to complete on a regular basis, you mostly relied on visits home and maybe an occasional dip into the Good Book itself for your spiritual nourishment.

“Besides,” you’d come to argue, “God is everywhere. I shouldn’t need a building just to talk to him.”

You didn’t _dislike_ Mass, but you were definitely amongst the population who understood that it wasn’t always the most entertaining place to be. Of course, the argument for that would’ve been that church wasn’t there to entertain you, it was there for worship and community. Fair enough. But that didn’t mean you were going to pretend to be enthralled by the sermons and the feeling of guilt that was practically thrust upon you with every visit. Add that in with the exhaustion of adult life and how little free time you got, and the deal you’d set up for yourself was that if you woke up an hour before 11 o’clock services at Our Lady and could still feel your feet you would attend services. Unfortunately, with your craptastic sleep schedule and in ability to get up after three alarms, this deal was scarcely followed through with.

You thought you’d be doing yourself and your spirituality a favor by agreeing to go with Sonny to _his_ church the morning after dinner with his folks. You even convinced yourself that attending 9 o’clock service would be good for you, or that it was a deserved punishment for not attending even the later services on a regular schedule.

But then you opened your eyes and, without thinking, released a hiss of displeasure as the morning light enthusiastically groped your eyeballs. And, with equal brightness, your boyfriend knocked on your apartment door, ready to pick you up. You almost wanted to punch him for being so damn pleasant, even as he waited patiently for you to finish getting ready.

“You don’t need to get dolled up,” Sonny insisted. Though he certainly didn’t seem to mind it, looking you up and down as you entered the living room, dressed in a white dress with a blue flower pattern and pearls. You didn’t think it was too much, but it was just classy enough to hopefully avoid getting whispered about.

You clumsily offered a smile. “Well, they call it ‘Sunday best’, don’t they?” You inwardly sighed at the sight of Sonny nodding with agreement. If you could get through this service, you’d be one step closer to being the good girl you could approve of. And who knows? Maybe church with Sonny would be great, simply because he was there with you.

**2\. Recite the Nicene Creed during Mass**

You tried not to jiggle your leg. Tried _so_ hard not to tap your feet against the hard tile floor. But lord almighty (no pun intended), if the droning that had been occurring for the last half hour didn’t make you feel on edge. It was weird how restrictions worked: Normally, you weren’t an excessively mobile person if you could help it. But the moment you were expected to sit still and keep quiet? _That_ was when you were suddenly convinced you needed to run a marathon and monologue Shakespeare.

You looked at your boyfriend to see how he was holding up and immediately regretted it. You should’ve known that Sonny, born and raised in church, would have become skilled in the art of keeping stellar composure. His figure was postured as though he’d receive nourishment with every word that flowed beyond the pulpit, hands folded carefully on the back of the pew before you two without a single finger twitching or tapping from anxiety over being stilled. Beautiful, blue eyes focused intently on the speaker, Sonny didn’t seem tempted to observe his surroundings at all, no desire to find refuge from boredom in the stained glass depicting saints and martyrs.

You were able to snap yourself out of your reverie just in time to hear an aged voice say the particular line that insinuated the next part of Mass: the recitation of the Nicene Creed. You made a pleased smile within yourself upon this acknowledgement: You knew the Nicene Creed like the back of your hand, it was practically Pavlovian at this point. 

And so, like the good Catholic Sonny knew you were, you began alongside the rest of the congregation:

“We believe in one God –” you began.

“I believe in one God –” Sonny and the rest of the congregation began.

You froze. _I_?

“ – of all things seen and unseen –” you continued.

“ – of all things visible and invisible – ” the others continued.

From your peripheral vision, you could just barely make out Sonny returning the gesture: A side eye of interest. But whereas you had complete confusion mixed into your glance, Sonny’s held curiosity. You whipped your eyes back to the jacket-wearing back of the gentleman standing in front of you and creased your brows by a millimeter.

“We (I) believe in one lord Jesus Christ – ”

“ – begotten, not made, one in being with the Father – ”

“ – begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father – ”

 _Oh, ffffffffffffffflubbernuggets_. Was that an okay thing to think in the Lord’s house? Flubbernuggets? Who cares? _When the crap did they change the Nicene Creed!?_ It was then that you realized that you might’ve been off your Holy Game even longer than initially surmised. On top of that, out of all the things the Catholic Church needed revisions on – _that was the thing they thought needed to be updated the most!?_ You tried to keep the confusion and growing frustration about this decision off of your face for the rest of Mass.

Sonny made this particularly hard when, during the exchanging of the sign of peace, he placed a peck on your cheek and whispered, “A traditionalist, I see?” You wondered if St. Lucy would’ve minded it if you threw yourself through the nearby decorated window made in her image. It wasn’t like she looked at it constantly to become attached to it or anything …

… It was at that moment you realized that could be taken the wrong way and simply wanted to crawl under your pew and _**die**_.

**3\. Go through with Confirmation**

“Hey, Counselor, whaddya think?” Sonny beamed, bringing his briefcase into view. Barba barely glanced at it before looking back to the case files he’d just been handed. And he was hoping for a quieter day at the office, too …

“… What am I looking at here?” came the dull response.

Sonny’s brows creased, though his smile remained ever present. “Whaddya mean? I got it monogrammed! See?” He pointed to the strip of leather upon which the metal clasp was attached. D.O.G.C.

“… ‘Dog C’?” Barba questioned after deciding to humor his follower.

“Very funny,” Sonny replied dryly. “Anyway, no, it’s – ”

A gentle knock sounded from behind the office door before opening to reveal you as the source.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait, Mr. Barba,” you offered, ushering yourself in. “The line for Danishes was ridiculous.” You placed a paper bag containing the confectionaries on the edge of his desk away from any files that could be damaged by the sticky oils.

“It’s fine. In fact, you came in just in time: Go distract your boyfriend, he’s going on about this,” Barba waved a hand dismissively, “case.”

“It’s monogrammed, just came in last night!” Sonny stated proudly.

“Oh, neat!” you replied, eager to share his enthusiasm. You observed the lettering: “Dominick Orsino . . . What’s the ‘G’ for?”

“Confirmation name: Genesius. Patron saint of lawyers.” You hummed and nodded.

“And comedians,” you noted.

“How fitting,” Barba threw in, not looking up from his work.

Ignoring Barba’s usual third-party heckling, Sonny inquired how you knew that bit.

“Well, when I was looking at Confirmation names, I took it as an opportunity to memorize weird saints. Like Denis or Agatha.”

“Neat! So what’s yours?” The curiosity glittered in Sonny’s eyes, as if you had a secret to share. It was therefore disheartening for you to feel your stomach bubble at the realization of what he was getting at.

“Pardon?”

“Your confirmation name, what is it?”

Crapolla. You placed your hands together, tapping the tips against one another as if their padding would drown out the similar thumping of your embarrassed heart. It shouldn’t have made you nervous at all, it was just a name. But, considering where you were in your process comparatively, the fact that it was a name you didn’t even have just felt … _wrong_. Particularly in that it was your completionist Catholic boyfriend who was asking for it.

“ Oh, uh … I … neverwentthroughwithit,” you blurbed.

You watched the curiosity dim. As if it were on one end of a teeter-totter, the other end rose within you: Guilt.

“Pardon?” Sonny asked. It wasn’t harsh or anything of the sort. It was only in a tone that any person would use if they’d misheard something. If only you could convince yourself that this conversation was, in fact, as regular as it probably was.

“I never went through with it,” you mumbled. “Confirmation, I mean. I just … I’unno, there was never any real time …” Your voice trailed as you came to realize how lame that excuse sounded. No time to advance your spirituality and connection with the church? No time to attempt to exempt yourself from eternal damnation? You _made_ time for that! As you began to rub the back on your arm, you started to wonder if attending drama club and babysitting services were worth it if they meant keeping you from religious extracurriculars.

“Oh,” was all Sonny had said. You noted that there wasn’t any disappointment, giving you temporary space to feel less bad about yourself.

“It’s probably for the better,” stated Barba, who’d taken an opportunity to look up from his work once more. “Giving yourself a Confirmation name just gives your mother one more sign that she’s angry with you. Can’t tell you how many times I had to hear ‘Rafael Iachimo Eduardo.’ You dodged a bullet, (Y/N).”

Before you could even offer a complimentary smile to suggest humor, Sonny snapped his fingers.

“I got it,” he said, “Rose. (Y/N) (M/N) Rose (L/N).”

You and Barba stared at the man incredulously. “Rose?” you questioned. Sonny nodded, quite sure of himself.

“Patron saint of flowers, but was known for her beauty. I think it sounds fittin’ for ya.” He threw in a smile that mingled together pride in his claim, and absolute flirtation. And with that adorable grin of his, the temporary safe haven he’d created closed, dropping you back into the pit of shame. Damn him for being so (and perhaps too) accepting. It made you feel a little less lovely than what he was implying.

You weren’t sure whether Barba’s request that you two “continue your flirting elsewhere” was a good thing or not, being that it broke the moment but also allowed Sonny to ask if you’d join him for lunch. You tried to spend the rest of your hour together feeling like the name he thought would suit you, only to once again feel like a wilting flower.

**4\. Go to Confession regularly**

You had always been a bit iffy about Confession, even as a child. But the reasons had shifted as you grew. When you first started out, you just felt nervous at the idea of telling anyone your sins. Feelings of guilt you’d attempted to bury from stealing your classmate’s cookie during snack time, or lying to your mom about brushing your teeth before bedtime would all arise with every whisper you gave to the listening priest. You didn’t like the feeling of being ashamed.

As you grew older and more skeptical of authority, this unease with the practice became more passionate out of the recognition that these priests were human. This, aside from the acknowledgement that water was wet, became one of your most pointed cases: Humans, no matter what position in life, were all capable of blackmail. Even though you had no desire to commit anything tremendously questionable or heinous, you had even less of a desire to trust someone with such sensitive information.

By the time you’d reached adulthood, it simply became that you didn’t agree with the suggestion that only Catholics were capable of salvation due to their practice of Confession. If God was truly all-loving, then it didn’t make much sense that he would limit his children for their decision to not tell some other bag of flesh about what they’d done when they could simply talk to _him_ about it and ask for his forgiveness. 

Sonny, apparently, had never faced the temptation of deterring from the ritual. Or, at the very least, he had never experienced one of the same caliber as you had. The man went to confessional every month as advised. Twice a week alongside frequent visits to services if a case was becoming particularly grueling on his spiritual state. You figured maybe there was something that you, in your adolescent hesitancy, had caused yourself to miss. Maybe Confession was like certain foods: You dislike them as a child but, as you grow, your tastes shift and it becomes more bearable. Only one way to find out.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Sonny insisted for the umpteenth time that day. You huffed in response, attempting to speed your steps up as the cathedral came into view. Back before all of this Catholic guilt (before you even started dating!), you had voiced your feelings on Confession. It was not in the form of a critique, but more so an admission as to why you had your qualms about it with a conclusion that while it was not for you, you could understand if someone else found comfort in it and commended them for upholding a potentially strenuous ritual.

For this, Sonny was grateful and tried to return the favor by not pushing you to partake. It was therefore somewhat puzzling to the man when that evening you mentioned needing to stop by the church on your way home to do Confession. Well, puzzled and suspicious. After he questioned you sternly as to whether you had committed someone drastic, followed by your insistence that you’d done nothing wrong and simply wanted to give the practice another go, he calmed. Somewhat.

“I mean, if you’re really about this, I won’t hold ya back,” Sonny offered. You wordlessly marched up the stairs. Your mind had been made.

“Why do you sound so against it?” you muttered lowly.

“I’m not against it,” Sonny maintained as he followed you up the cathedral steps. “I just remember how you once said that you didn’ really like Confession or anything. And to be honest, this just seems a lil out of the blue. I figured maybe this might have something to do with the dinner?” Balls. Balls to him and his beautiful, supportive spirit that made him analyze the shit out of you.

It took everything in you not to freeze up and confirm your datemate’s suspicions. Rather, _almost_ everything; there was just enough in you to keep you moving as well as to create a smile that was meant to assure, but contained cracks if one knew where to look. 

“Sonny,” you managed to giggle, stopping outside of the doors. “This has nothing to do with the dinner.” _Yeah; it has to do with the fact that that dinner made me realize I need to up my God Game._ “I’m allowed to change, right? Besides, you always seem so fulfilled after attending Confession, I wanted to see what I was missing. It’s been some time since I’ve done it after all.” Sonny pressed his lips until they flattened into a line of uncertainty. Yours, however, remained curled with attempted spontaneity as you grabbed the door handle and began to pull the heavy wood towards you. “I’ve done some growing; maybe something about it’s changed for me.”

+++++++++

 _Nope_ , you thought to yourself. _Same old cramped, musty box._ You had to remind yourself not to swing your legs in the confession box, convinced that doing such a juvenile thing would be frowned upon in a container symbolic of repentance. That, and if you weren’t mindful enough, your feet would hit the confessional door and make a thud that would surely resonate within the spacious sanctuary. You didn’t need Sonny, standing outside, to become frazzled at a sudden booming. You sheepishly looked at the gated window to your side and tried your best to hold back a scoff. All these years and this was still the highest method of keep anonymity for these situations, huh? Thank God the Church decided that it was the _Nicene Creed_ that needed updating, and not the Medieval equivalent of a witness protection filter that served as a barrier.

You felt a little bad for thinking these thoughts when you took a moment to analyze them. Maybe you could tell Father about them? … Oh, crap. What _were_ you going to tell the pastor!? You had been so intent on proving a point by attending Confession that you’d actually failed to really conclude what you were going to confess! It wasn’t like you were sinless, you knew that much. But there was no way in anything that you were able to release the cavalcade of corruptions that you had accumulated over the years. You needed something simple, something that would ease Father in to your sordid life. Something to make you sympathetic enough so that once he got the dirty details, he’d feel too awful to use them as blackmail –

“Good evening, child,” came a warm, elderly voice from behind the gated window. In all your worrying, you failed to recognize that Father Murphy had taken his place in the opposite section of the box.

“U… Good evening, Father,” you responded back. Disliking how nervous you sounded, you reminded yourself over and over that he’d heard plenty of nervous voices before and that you were making a mountain out of a mole hill over this entire thing.

“What brings you in this day?” Father Murphy inquired.

_But what if making a mountain will help in reaching Heaven!?_

“Oh, Father,” you began. You wanted to smack yourself for coming off so dramatically. “I have committed a sin and am taking responsibility to beg for forgiveness.”

“Very good. Might I ask what sin you have committed?” … Well, crap.

“I-it’s … Uh …” It was at that moment that you realized being put on the spot in the House of the Lord was different from being put on the spot at your job. More feelings of damnation if you’d have to place a finger on it.

In the midst of your stammering, you heard the priest offer, “Take your time. These things can come with difficulty, child.” 

_Dangit, why does he have to be so nice about it!?_ you wanted to scream. How the heck did Sonny do this every month? Had you ever even seen him commit a crime!?

_… Wait a second!_

“Father, I stole: My boyfriend had saved a cannoli for himself for after work and I couldn’t help myself – I ate it!” Dammit. And it’d sounded so good in the heat of the moment. You were a grown woman; why were you coming in here with a confession children in Sunday School used? Before you could stop yourself, you added in, “I went out and bought a new one for him, though. Walked six blocks in the evening so he’d have a cannoli ready for him as soon as he stepped a toe through the door.”

“I see … Indeed, stealing _is_ a crime. Though, I must commend you for taking responsibility and setting things right – ”

“I also snuck a bag of cherry sours from a bodega into the movies once because I didn’t want to pay the unreasonable concessions price,” you weakly blabbed.

“That, uh … It’s against theater protocol but I wouldn’t call that a sin necessarily.”

“Oh.”

+++++++++

As you exited the confession box, you caught sight of Sonny kneeling in a pew. Apparently he figured that so long as you were doing your thing, he could do his own and get a word in. That, or he felt obligated to as the feeling of pulling out your phone in even an empty church was too awkward.

“Hey,” he chirped after performing the sign of the cross. Lifting himself off of the kneeler, he resumed his place by you. “So, how’d it go? Didja get what you were lookin’ for?”

You bit your bottom lip and cast your eyes to the side. “Well … Maybe I still need some time trying to figure out where I stand with confession.”

“Ehh, that’s fine,” Sonny shrugged. He placed an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close with an affectionate nudge. “C’mon, it’s getting late out. Maybe we’ll stop and get Chinese on the way back.”

You smiled. “Sounds good.” A beat as you began to walk towards the sanctuary doors. “… I also got a mad craving for cannoli,” you whined.

“We can stop for that, too, then.” Good old Sonny. Sonny, who was apparently nice enough to avoid corrupting the sanctity of confession to ask what you told the priest as his keen hearing picked up the sounds of snickering from the confession box as the two of you walked down the aisle.

If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn you heard Father Murphy huffing to supress a chuckle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still trying, still dying at this Catholic thing. Or maybe you're just so focused on what you don't do that you don't recognize what you _do_ get right.

**5\. Remember not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent**

It was amazing how cravings worked: You could be perfectly fine, not want to eat anything in particular and just eat whatever simply because you needed nourishment to keep getting through the day. But the moment you’re told you can’t eat a certain something, no matter how often you may or may not eat it, it suddenly becomes all you can think about. _That_ was what made Lent maddening for you as a child. It was as though the season held special powers beyond serving as a countdown for your lord and savior basically becoming a zombie: It could make you crave cafeteria nuggets like a junkie craved a fix. But considering that said zombie-savior got beaten, nailed to a cross, and was forced to wear a crown of thorns for you, abstaining from meat a couple of Fridays for 40 days was the least you could do besides doing nothing at all. 

… But Zombie Jesus, it was so _hard_. In your youth, it was a bit easier because your packed lunches would always be checked over by your mom or dad to assure that it was up to Lenten approval. Sure, there was the occasional slip where you’d stop by the convenience store after school for a quick snack and all too eagerly buy a Slim Jim (was that even meat?). But for the most part, you did your due diligence as a good Catholic girl. Unfortunately, you were now a Catholic _woman_ whose mommy and daddy’s involvement, at most, would maybe occasionally happen to call on Friday just to chat and then happen to mention what that day’s meatless meal had been. This, without fail, would always cause you to grit your teeth on the strip of bacon you’d been eating or lead you to utter an expletive muffled by the pepperoni Hot Pocket you’d microwaved to avoid cooking. 

You always knew you could do better. Knew that you _should_ do better. And yet, you never quite got anywhere, consoling yourself with the same thought every time the only options for dinner were between a can of Campbell’s chunky beef stew or air pudding: “It’s okay. You’re fine. God has bigger worries than if you’re eating mud-flavored soup alone in front of a TV playing reruns of _Bridezillas_ a quarter to midnight. Just say two Hail Mary’s before bed.”

You were a little embittered about the fact that it took Sonny’s presence in your life to serve as a catalyst of sorts for improving upon yourself. Such a task should’ve relied on sheer will, not sheer guilt no matter how much of a part in the stereotypical Catholic’s life such a feeling played. But you figured guilt catalyst was better than none. After all, life was already hectic enough as is.

You grumbled this sad fact as you dug into your meal. It was hitting 8 o’clock, and this was the first meal you’d managed to catch all day. Work had been busting your butt with no time for a break. And snacking on vending machine munchables could only do so much. It was probably for this reason that your McNuggets tasted like Heaven instead of a travesty to your health. Like amateur food porn where it’s not what you wanted exactly, but the craving was so bad that you took the first legal, not entirely creepy-looking thing that you could get your hands and mouth on.

You were so deep into your pathetic relishing that you didn’t even notice that Sonny had come through the door, plastic bag in hand. It wasn’t until he’d actually spoken that you were broken out of your McNugget musing.

“Hey, Babe,” he greeted, taking off his shoes by the door. He heard you hum in response; your mouth was too full of fast food to reply with a vocal greeting. You heard him usher his way towards the kitchen, bag rustling by his side. “I got us veggie wraps from that place a few blocks do – ” The sudden stop made you turn to look at your boyfriend, who was now staring at you with brows quirked.

You smacked your lips as you swallowed. “What?” Sonny opened his mouth by a fraction, as if not entirely sure what words to use.

“You, uh … You _do_ know that it’s Friday, right?” he finally replied.

“What?” This time, your own brows creased. “No it isn’t; it’s Thursday. I know it is because Mrs. Vatillo’s been blaring _Dancing with the Stars_ all evening.”

“Ever heard of reruns, sweetheart?”

“… Ah, dammit!” you cried. You didn’t notice the half-eaten nugget pressed against your head as your hands flew to your face. It took the dipping sauce creating a notably cooler spot on your skin to notice the physical mess you made instead of just the mental one.

Sonny, on the other hand, watched will unadulterated amusement, only cutting in once you began berating your mistake.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it!” he insisted, holding his hand up to gesture a cease. “You made a mistake; happens all the time! Even I mess up my Fridays every once in a while. It’s fine, Babe.”

A muffled groan rippled in your throat. You weren’t sure if it was worth pointing out that he had points to spare while you didn’t.

“Besides,” Sonny continued, placing a kiss to your cheek. “I don’t think McNuggets is even real meat.” He chuckled as he heard your subsequent whimper waver with the sound of you finishing off the nugget.

**6\. Save yourself for marriage. The rules might’ve changed a bit, but it’s still preferable that you practice a healthy sense of abstinence**

Okay, you at least had this one pretty down pat. And for that, you were quite proud. Maybe it was the romantic in you, but the idea of saving yourself for your spouse had always been extremely appealing to you. And considering the shifting feelings about premarital sex, you felt that made your efforts even more worthy of his or her admiration. Specifically, the “his” that you deep down desperately hoped was Sonny.

To no surprise of yours, he was quite accepting of you preferring to practice abstinence and even admirable of it. He always made sure to keep your boundaries in mind, particularly when you got handsy under the influence. He was quite fine if the extent of your shared physical affections meant making out. Hell, you were pretty certain that if the most you wanted was booping each other on the nose, Sonny would do it. He’s be perplexed, of course, but it wasn’t in him to be so judgmental of it: As an SVU detective and an overall decent man, consent and consideration ranked high on his list of importance in everything he did, relationship or not. That being said …

**7\. In fact, refrain from pre-marital actions of the flesh, be it heterosexual, homosexual, or solo**

Abstinence didn’t mean the switch was turned off. It just meant that you were conserving energy until you found a reason for the room to be lit, so to speak in awful metaphors. And man, were there times when you thought, “That room could be put to good use – as a room to bang my handsome boyfriend in!” Of course, you restrained yourself out of sheer principle and will power. But at this rate, your will power was started to get buff.

And tonight, it was getting quite the workout: Sonny had offered to come over for simple, shared relaxation. Normally, this would’ve been fine. Normally, the two of you would order in and binge watch reality TV shows on Hulu until you passed out with some caresses and a few moments of making out in between. And normally, you weren’t feeling … . “special.” On the nights he did come over and you were feeling “special”, you could practice enough self-control to keep things at a maximum of _maybe_ some grinding. (And even that wasn’t without some semblance of shame on your part to be honest, particularly after Sonny would gently suggest that the two of you stop before the grinding became closer to a skinship.) But tonight – and you didn’t know why – the Fornication Forces™ were inexplicably strong with you. 

_Maybe I should cancel_ , you processed, laying on the couch. You figured if you just set yourself down, maybe your body would recognize the position and realize how tired it was, rendering you too tired to try anything frisky. Really, though, the only thing you body was convincing itself at the moment was that this would’ve been a good position to do things in. Naughty things.

While one half of your mind was frantically trying to beat the hormonal thoughts back into the abyss, the other half was disagreeing with your previous suggestion. It had been a long week, and you and Sonny had barely seen each other, much less in an intimate manner that even included anything more than a peck on the forehead for parting ways. Besides, it wasn’t fair to Sonny if you dropped out just because you felt particularly needy. You just had to be a grown-ass woman and control yourself as you usually did.

In the midst of your inner pep talk, you figured that maybe a distraction would cool down the embers of eroticism within. Grabbing your laptop, you scoured YouTube for funny videos or informational ones in the hopes that they would serve as efficient enough distractions. It was through the inevitable connecting rabbit holes that is YouTube that you found yourself on the theater side of the site, where you came upon a title that you were certain would kill off the feeling for good.

“ _Leap of Faith_ ,” you read aloud. Sounded Christian, sounded light-hearted and pure. Perfect! Nothing wiped away arousal like Christian theater, right? You selected a video offering clips of the performance … And almost immediately regretted it.

At least, that was what you were trying to tell yourself you ought to be feeling. But it’s hard to think straight while being captivated by the image of a handsome man with a great ass shake his hips in such a controlled yet somehow fluid fashion. It made you wonder what else those hips of his could do. Not helping was the bad boyish facial hair, the dangerous look in his (beautiful) eyes, those gorgeous locks, that fine physique, those arms, that literal Godsend of a voice, and _good lord, nobody should be able to make a suit covered in disco glass look so deliciously good!_

You tried to scold yourself, constantly pointing out that even if his character’s position as a man of God was false, it was bad enough to imagine the possible reverend kink you could imagine him having. But, to your immense dismay, the idea of sullying such a title made it disturbingly more tempting! The entire time you battled inwardly with your logic and your lust, your hand was taking advantage of your distracted state: little by little, it was moving closer and closer toward your pajama pants. In synchronization, little by little a ticklish warmth pulsed and glowed within your lower tummy and downward. By the time the reverend-devil of a man (devilrend?) was shown in that red jacket and leather pants, the elastic of your bottoms was being ushered to the side.

“The women I’ve seen are like a pinball machine,” he stated. “Push the right button and you score.” To clarify exactly what his simile had meant, his slender fingers curled in the air with a “come hither” motion. Oh, God what sins and blessings those fingers could commit … That seemingly simple gesture sent a blazing spark into your lower half, burning away at all sensibility and leaving only desire and a clear path to chase it down to completion – 

_**Click.** _

_Oh, shit._

You whipped your hand out of your pants so fast you nearly knocked yourself in the chest. As your door creaked open, you prayed that Sonny wouldn’t notice anything or pick up on the atmosphere you’d created for yourself, only to wind up wondering if it was appropriate to ask for God’s help when you were milliseconds away from making joyful noise.

Per the usual, as he took of his shoes, your walking sunshine greeting you with a warm, “Hey, Babe.” And per the usual, you responded right back. Only, not per the usual, your greeting was a bit trembly like a child nearly caught in the act of stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. Thankfully, Sonny was seemingly too tired to take note of this, making his way towards you.

In your state of being frazzled, you didn’t think quick enough to shut your laptop, allowing Sonny to be able to take a glance at the screen. In doing so, he was able to look upon your shame.

Brows furrowed, he said, “Huh. That’s weird … That guy looks an awful lot like Barba.” … What? You didn’t say it, but the look on your face certainly did. Able to recognize this, Sonny went on, “Yeah, look: Same facial structure, similar hair, about the same height … This guy dresses a little gaudier than him but yeah – dude looks a lot like Barba. I’nt that interesting?” He cracked a smile and went to head to the bathroom to wash up, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

What was now seen could not be unseen, no matter how hard you rubbed the heels of your palms against your eyes. Why couldn’t you notice that before so that your girly boner would’ve died on the spot before this all began!? After making sure to close your laptop screen and set it gently on the coffee table away from where it would be most likely to become damaged, you slammed your face into one of the couch cushions and screamed as quietly as possible. Screaming, knowing that you almost got off to the prosecutor’s dramaturgical doppelganger and that you would never be able to look at Barba the same way again because of it. If only you had noticed this before, then maybe the overwhelming senses of embarrassment, horror, and confusion would not have burned even brighter than the feelings you’d had only moments before.

Needless to say, you could barely get through cuddling that night, completely turned off in every which way.

**8\. Above all else, aside from accepting Jesus as your Lord and Savior, just be a good person. The world is already so crappy, making it nicer out of the goodness of your heart is something that should be valued**

Sonny watched wordlessly as you sat on the ground, arms reached out for his niece to toddle right into. He found himself smiling alongside the laughter the two of you shared as the chubby-legged child flopped herself against your chest. He never understood why you always insisted that you weren’t good with kids; as far as he was concerned, most kids had an almost immediate liking to you or, at the very least, were willing to approach you without must suggestion. He supposed it had something to do with how kind you looked and sounded. After all, that seemed to be one of the reasons his family invited you back over for yet another family dinner.

In the midst of you giving his squealing niece a raspberry on her tummy, Sonny heard Theresa call for you to come “hang around the big girls” for a change. Agreeing to the invitation, you scooped the toddler up into your arms and, mimicking the sound of an aircraft, gently zigzagged her through the air as you walked toward her watching uncle.

“This is your captain speaking, we welcome you to Sonnyville and hope you enjoy your stay,” you told the little girl amongst her coos of delight. Gingerly handing her over to Sonny’s waiting arms, you gently added in, “Might I recommend the cheek kisses, Little Miss? They’re my favorite!” One last teasing poke on her tummy and you went on your way to hang out with Sonny’s sisters, leaving the man himself on the couch with his niece. When Sonny noticed the toddler pouting and reaching out for your departing figure, he found himself chuckling, “Yeah, I like having her around, too,” before treating her to your highly recommended kiss on the cheek.

+++++++

“I didn’t know you could knit.” The comment caused you to look up at your boyfriend. Despite having turned on the TV as soon as he’d taken his place beside you on the couch, he’d spent the last couple of minutes observing you. As you looked up from your project, your fingers kept moving without error. This suggested to Sonny that not only could you knit, but you were at least practiced in it enough to nearly do so in your sleep.

You blinked. “Well, you never asked. Plus, I haven’t done it in a long while.” You shrugged and looked back down to start a new row.

“Well, what made ya stop?” Sonny inquired. He liked learning things about you. Particularly, he liked learning things about you even if they were simple things. Things that could’ve been revealed earlier in the relationship.

You looked upwards in thought, knitting still. “Dunno. I think I just sorta fell out of it when life started getting too busy? I used to knit during my lectures in college – kept me awake and somehow alert – but then this one professor asked me to stop because it was causing a distraction. Which I think is total bullshit because absolutely no-one cared that I was knitting in a literature lecture.” You paused, recognizing that you were beginning to ramble. “But yeah; I just kinda stopped doing it for a while.”

Sonny nodded with understanding. “And you’re doin’ it now because you missed it?”

“Well, sorta. Liv told me about this one project the art museum is doing to raise awareness of abuse survivors: People are knitting and crocheting squares to be made into a big blanket. The idea is about not being alone and being covered with warmth of strangers who care. Each square and the elite involved in this thing will donate money to the Joyful heart Foundation. I thought it’d be a great idea and a great thing to do, so I found my old needles, stopped by the craft store, and got to work. Plus, knitting’s therapeutic.”

You smiled. “My goal is to have between 5 and 8 squares by the deadline in six weeks!” The amount of determination, in addition to the subtle glow you developed during your explanation of the project you were now a part of, caused Sonny to return the grin. Though his carried tones of being impressed. And of pride.

You never noticed, however, as you turned your attention to the TV. You continued to knit. And Sonny continued to watch you.

++++++++

It was Friday night and Sonny was bushed. The week, while not necessarily as bad as others, had still beaten his ass with a case that had about as many twists and turns as the map of Candyland. If only the outlook for the pending trial were so sweet. Needless to say, Barba was going to have yet another chunk of his work cut out for him, meaning that tensions were going to be high for the coming week.

During exhausting days like this, there was nothing more that Sonny would have loved than a nice, hearty meal; maybe something from the deli. He found himself groaning alongside his stomach at the thought of such a treat, only to remember that it was a Friday and it was still the Lenten season. 

_Well_ , he thought to himself as he trudged his way up the stairs to his apartment. _I guess I can just order the usual pizza and call it a night._ As he got to his floor, Sonny found his previously drab and tired senses being stroked by a new, invigorating stimuli. Baked goods? Probably one of his neighbors. Must be nice; cakes sounded all too delightful right now. As he neared his own door, however, he began to realize and error in his previous assumption. The smell wasn’t coming from somebody else’s place: it was coming from _his_. That, and the sound of an oven door creaking open, bowls clattering, and the sound of the sink running.

Sonny wasn’t sure what to expect as he opened the door. Being ready to fight a baking burglar wasn’t how he thought his week would end but if that’s what was going on –

Between the two of you, Sonny was the better cook. You weren’t _awful_ in the kitchen, Sonny was simply just divine by comparison. As such, the image of you dawning an apron splattered with patched of flour, powdered sugar, and your sleeves rolled up was a bit strange for Sonny to see. Adorable, no doubt about that, but different from how he usually saw you. You began to blush when you saw the man walk through the door, only adding to the cuteness.

“Crud,” you murmured. “I was sorta hoping you wouldn’t be back until a bit later … B-but don’t worry, I’m going to clean all of this, I promise!” The “all of this” being the mixing bowl, egg shell particles, and small piles of baked good ingredients marking his counter. Normally, Sonny was particular about his kitchen. But instead, he found himself concerned with something else.

“What’re you up to?” Sonny asked.

“Well, it’s, um … I know this week has been hard on you so I – ” 

As if on cue, the egg-shaped timer you had set earlier dinged. Immediately, the stammering gave way to a person with the mission. 

“Oh, good, it’s done! Wait here, I – no wait! Go wash up and change while I put the finishing touches on it!” you insisted. When Sonny didn’t move, confused as to the sudden shift, you groaned. “Come onnn!” you whined, scurrying behind him before nudging him toward his room. You tried to pay no mind to the laughing this coaxed from him, insisting that you needed it to be a surprise since he practically ruined it by coming home early. 

++++++++ 

“M’kay,” sighed Sonny as he emerged from the back. He felt somewhat better now, having had a shower and changed into his Fordham Law sweats. He couldn’t help but smirk as he came upon you, standing in front of the table in a manner that suggested you were shielding something. A huge smile dazzled your features, your hands curled and pressed together as if clasping the surprise within them. 

“Okay, okay, so!” you exclaimed. “I know this week’s been tough on you. And I don’t want my Sonshine to dampen so I thought it’d be nice to cheer you up in any way possible. Sooooo …” You stepped to the side and gestured your hands Vanna White style. Only instead of letters, your presentation was something of far more use to Sonny: a large order of pizza from his favorite establishment. “Your favorite: Goat cheese and sundried tomatoes.” You threw in a cheeky eyebrow-arching to hype up the mood. However, judging by the way your boyfriend’s face lit up, it wasn’t necessary: The man was thrilled. 

“Aw, you didn’t have to!” 

“Ah, but I did. You know I’d do whatever I could to make you smile.” 

_Damn straight_ , Sonny thought. But as strong as his love for the pie was, the sugary smell present in the air overpowered him with curiosity. 

“But, uh … As much as I love pizza, I’m almost positive that this wasn’t what you were up to when I walked in earlier, right?” he teased. This prompted a smirk from you. 

“Right you are, my little-tall detective,” you joked right back. “So close your eyes.” He did as instructed. He heard the sound of your feet padding over to the oven, the screech of the machinery’s door opening and then closing, and then your voice saying that it was alright for him to look. 

“Tadaaahhh!” you cheered, holding up your creation. To the average person, it might’ve looked like a regular vanilla sheet cake. Maybe a vanilla sheet cake with a hint of citrus. But Sonny knew that smell well enough to know better. Plus, the fleur de lis embossment in the powdered sugar was a giveaway. 

Sonny licked his lips. “You made – “ 

“Schiacciata alla Fiorentina!” you stated. You puffed out your chest with pride. “I phoned your mom the other day asking for any recipes you particularly enjoyed and she said this was a good way to cheer you right up. Plus, it’s good for the Easter season, right?” 

Sonny wasn’t sure what made him inhale in delight more: the scent of the cake, or the very essence of you. As you stood glowingly, he gently took the pan from your hands and set it on the table. This left you confused before he ushered you into a hug. Embraces were nothing strange at all when in a relationship with Sonny Carisi. However, the type he was currently providing was one that didn’t come up as often: His cheek laying on the crown of your head, arms wrapped so tightly around you it was as if he was worried that you might fly away. You wanted to joke that he wasn’t leaving any room for Jesus between the two of you but decided against it. Instead, you chose to focus on everything else: The smell of his soap; the sound of his heart beating against your ear; how you could just make out the smile he was wearing against your head. But most of all, the intense feeling of complete, unadulterated adoration resonating from his being. 

“I don’t deserve you. Y’know that?” he finally spoke. You scoffed against his chest.

“I should be saying that about you, you know,” you threw back. 

“No,” Sonny insisted. “I mean it: I do all kinds of crap both in and out of my job. But then I get you and it’s like …” He trailed off. You took the opportunity to step in once again. 

“Sonny, what you do in comparison to me (or rather, what I fail to do) makes _me_ the lucky one. You’re great, you deserve the best.” 

“And I got the best.” 

“No, you got _me_.” 

In that moment, the grip of his arms around you slacked before positioning themselves to push you away. Only enough for Sonny to take a good look at you, but still enough to make you recognize how warm you felt against him. The look on his face was stern; something you rarely saw Sonny be when it came to you. 

“(Y/N),” he said with a gentle strictness. “I don’t know how long it’s gonna take before you realize that you’re not this godawful person or whatever it is you think you are. I work in SVU for God’s sake – you’re literally up for sainthood by comparison to the pieces of crap I encounter on a regular basis.” 

“Well, yeah, but,” you meekly replied, “it’s easy for you to say that when you’re higher up on the scale – ” 

“For cryin’ out loud, _there is no scale!_ I don’t know what has ya convinced that there’s some Catholic hierarchy goin’ on but I can promise ya: _there is none_. And if there is, you’d be right up there on the higher levels.” 

Your brows creased at the blond’s claim. “Dude, I _suck_ as a Catholic: I don’t always go to services, I get prayers mixed up, I screw up with Lent, I – ” 

“Are still a good person,” Sonny finished. 

“... What?” 

“You’re still a good person,” he repeated. “Look, religion, no matter what people say, isn’t a competition: You know there are plenty of crappy pastors and whatnot out there, so the idea that position determines anything is about as wobbly as a broken chair. But you know what God loves? Triers. Jesus wasn’t goin’ around banning people left and right for messin’ up – Mary Magdalen was a prostitute for cryin’ out loud.” 

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You weren’t sure how you felt about being compared to a prostitute, fellow follower of Jesus or not. Sonny bit his lip, noting that you hadn’t taken to that last sentence as well as he’d hoped. But he tried yet again: 

“I know ya may think I’m this ‘incredible Catholic’ or whatever it is ya think I am, but it’s easy to think that because you’re comparing yourself. Ya really don’t give yourself enough credit, though. (Y/N), ya knit blankets for abuse survivors; ya do things without being asked; and hey, children have weird senses about people, so my niece liking ya can’t be wrong!” (This provoked a smile from you; a good sign.) 

“And if you’re really that convinced that you’re ranked behind some creep just because he has a collar on, that to me, _that’s_ a bigger mistake than messing up grace. Because if God can love this goofball who messes up all the time, then I sure as hell can, too. And I sure as hell do.” 

At that last sentence, the cold you’d been reintroduced to upon separation from Sonny’s torso resumed. And boy, did it resume with a vengeance. You should’ve known how much blushing could feel like burning and yet, the flooding within your face was overwhelming. Not helping, of course, was that notoriously blissful smile Sonny wore, even as you pressed your face against his chest as if to soothe the sensation. 

As if recognizing how flustered he’d made you, you heard his chest rumble: “ _Especially_ if they buy me pizza and come to my place just to make me a cake!” The vibrations of him talking were followed with those of him laughing upon hearing a muffled pouting demand that he shut up. 

You were too precious. And how could anyone be disappointed in that? 


End file.
